


The first step in helping a doctor heal himself.

by Logos_Faber



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 05:38:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7922560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Logos_Faber/pseuds/Logos_Faber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scene between Mycroft Holmes and John Watson on the roof of St. Bart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The first step in helping a doctor heal himself.

This is a non-profit work of fiction for the amusement of other fans.

No infringement is intended.

Logos Faber

o0o

 

                He stood on the edge of the roof of Saint Bartholomew Hospital, ten stories above the street busy with early afternoon traffic. Stretched his arms out to his sides ready to be nailed to the cross of public opinion the media had erected to discredit him.

 

His long, dark great coat and dark curls whipping in the breeze - told his only friend to watch - William Sherlock Scott Holmes fell forward.

 

After awkward visits of condolence from former clients and people – now feeling guilty but justified - who jeered the detective during his life, harassment from flocks of reporters ravenous to pick at the bones of the great detective’s memory, a public wake in the city attended by scores of homeless, and a private funeral in the country John did not remember -

 

Dr. John Hamish Watson found myself sitting where my friend had once stood. My legs dangling over the edge, my elbows on his thighs, looking down at the sidewalk that cracked Sherlock’s skull like a melon smashed by a mallet.

 

That evening in early December was dark with clouds and no moon. That side of the hospital had street lights and traffic, but the yellow glow of that ambiance did not reach to the top of the building. From John’s perch the figures below were busy toys, from below he was just another shadow. 

 

Sherlock was not the first friend to die right before his eyes. John knew the cycle of grief well. Academically he knew he was still in shock. Once that cracked, then the tears and an emotional avalanche would crash down on him: pain, anger, guilt, bargaining, depression, loneliness, maybe someday acceptance.

 

The shattering and reconstruction was familiar. It had allowed him to survive the death of his parents, and ten years of watching people die horrifically in combat with most his humanity intact. It was how he left war longing for purposeful violence and a misdiagnosed case of PTSD.

 

This time, for the first time ever, the tears would not come. John knew he needed to feel the loss, start crying, purge the pain and move on. Yet even sitting on the roof of Saint Bartholomew, looking down at the sidewalk still faintly stained with Sherlock’s blood the tears would not come.

 

John felt nothing but empty calm.

 

Like the moment just before the violence - when the unsuspecting target was dead center in the crosshairs, breath held, finger just touching the trigger ever so gently. Like the moment crouched in the shell of a building with wounded men bleeding out behind him, short serrated knives in both fist, blood dripping in his eyes and the sound of footsteps getting closer.

 

 Hyper alert, blood ready, nerves steady - but there was no target. The mission, such as it was, abruptly over.

 

The tears would not come. The numb calm could not be banished. So John sat on the ledge wondering how to banish a demon he could not summon.

 

Behind John, the door to the roof sung open with a dry rust whine, and footsteps crunched toward him through the thin layer of gravel on the rooftop.

 

“Good evening, John Watson.”

 

“Mycroft.” He turned, sung his legs back onto solid ground and stood to face the elder Holmes brother with his arms crossed over his chest, feet planted shoulder width apart. Ever ready. “What do you want?”

 

“Ever so many things,” the gentlemen in the three piece suite replied, he leaned on his wood handled umbrella, legs crossed at the ankles. “World peace in my lifetime, a Vermeer, a reasonable explanation why you are working yourself up to an act of gothic fatalism. It is most unbecoming.”

 

“Not that it is any of your business but I am not suicidal, Mycroft.”

 

“I do beg your pardon, but you must admit our current location leaves the veracity of your assertion subject to scrupulous suspicion.”

 

 “This is a coping mechanism, a holdover from my military service.”

 

“That is not reassuring, Dr. Watson.”

 

“You don’t _care, Mr. Holmes._ It’s not to your advantage. So why are you here wasting your valuable time?”

 

“I have always regarded you as one of the friendly natives. I had hoped Sherlock’s haphazard tutelage you had some effect on your intelligence.”

 

“You called me stupid the first time we met and have treated me like an incompetent servant ever since.“

 

“Be that as it may, it would be most unfortunate if you did something _drastic_ because of a little upset.”

 

“Cut the bullshit.  You are a tool with delusions of self-importance.”

 

“Is that your profession assessment Dr. Watson? Based on your _extensive_ experience in military intelligence?”

 

“You’ve got a blind spot so large – Sherlock should never have been involved with Adler or Moriarty. Mi5 or the CIA or - somebody should have nipped all that in the bud. Whoever allowed you to involve Sherlock is setting you up. When the dust settles you are taking the fall.”

 

“Your tiresome absurd paranoia –“

 

“The Mujahedeen were CIA trained to fight the Soviets before they became Al-Qaeda. Sherlock was a genius; but your father coached him in deduction for years. Moriarty’s tactics scream _spook even to me_ – instead of harassing me you should be figuring out who trained him and why!”

 

“Your facts regarding Moriarty are wrong of course but the spirit of your argument is sound and your concern is flattering. In any case, rest assured the matter is being handled.  The violin was Sherlock’s instrument, politics is mine. I am a more gifted a virtuoso than my brother ever will be.”

 

“Pride goes before the fall Mycroft.”

 

“Right and wrong. Sinners and saints. Your morality is so provincial, John. Vice and virtue are propaganda used to keep the sheep in a tidy herd and the goldfish happy in their little bowls. Do you know what the difference is between Hitler and Alexander the Great is John?”

 

“One was a xenophobic psychotic murderous bastard and the other was the greatest military leader of the ancient world?”

 

 “Absolutely nothing. They were both charismatic murderous xenophobic psychotic fascist. The difference is Alexander of Macedonia died victorious and Hitler committed suicide rather than face defeat.”

 

“I am going to pretend you did not just compare your brother, my dead best friend to Hitler because throwing you off this roof is a sin.”

 

“If simplistic morality based on a romantic notion of karmic justice helps you reframe from violent impulses then by all means, indulge yourself. Should your self-control fail you, please know that the trauma I inflict on your person will be the product of reflex and not a reflection my regard for you.”

 

Despite himself, a hysterical giggle burst from John. “Only a Holmes would try to save my life and threaten to beat me senseless in the same conversation. Is your whole family mental?”

 

“You are welcome to judge for yourself. Some of the family are in town, and you are cordially invited to dinner. My parents in particular would appreciate the opportunity to speak with you as they did not have the opportunity during the funeral.”

 

“Do I have a choice?”

 

“There is always a choice, and every choice has a consequence.”

 

Behind Mycroft two burly men moved from the shadows like silent suited bears stalking prey.

One of the burly fellows held up a Taser, John could hear it charge and see blue electricity sparking at its muzzle.

 

John held up his hands in surrender. 


End file.
